


Hold Onto Hope, Love

by Dystopian_Dramaqueen, thismidnight



Series: When You Find Me [3]
Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, Military, happy ending guaranteed™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-05-13 21:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19259359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dystopian_Dramaqueen/pseuds/Dystopian_Dramaqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thismidnight/pseuds/thismidnight
Summary: Nick has been sent off to the war front in Chicago. He and June exchange letters, keeping their love alive despite the distance that separates them. Her words are the only support he has, giving him purpose and hope in a bleak, hopeless place.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Five weeks.

 

It’s been five weeks since DC.

 

June was ok the first month. She ignored the anxiety. Blocked it out. Repressed it.

 

But as the fifth week dragged on with no contact from Nick, she really started to worry.

 

_He said he’d write. Why hasn’t he written? Did he forget me? Forget his promise? He promised he’d write._

 

June shakes her head to try and clear it. _He didn’t forget. That’s not him. He’s trying. I know he’s trying._

 

_Maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe someone intercepted the letter. Maybe he was captured before he could send it._

 

She can’t stand that thought. She blinks it away. _He’s ok. He’s fine._

 

She doesn’t let the next thoughts surface. The images of him in pain. Or worse.... She can’t. _He’s FINE. HE’S OK._ She repeats these words to herself but they only make it worse.

 

And then she’s angry.

 

For some reason, anger is easier to handle than sadness or fear. So she lets herself be mad. Mad at Gilead for separating them. Mad at Nick for not writing sooner. Mad at herself for having these stupid thoughts.

 

Normally, when she felt this lost, she’d go to Nick.

 

Her worries evaporated in his presence like vampires at daybreak. She’d wait until dark. 10:30 pm, when the last guardian went home for the night.

 

She’d sneak across the lawn, up the garage stairs to Nick’s apartment. He always let her in, no questions asked. She’d crawl into his bed. He’d climb in with her, pull up his covers, wrap her in his arms and hold her. His steady heartbeat a metronome beneath her cheek, grounding her. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulling her to sleep.

 

Her eyes flutter closed as she remembers one night in particular.

 

 

_She couldn’t stop her thoughts. None of the breathing exercises or mantras worked. There was a hurricane in her head. Before Gilead she would have taken a xanax or had a drink. But there was nothing like that now. Just complete certainty that she was going to die here. Her chest was tight, her breaths shallow. Too shallow. The walls were closing in. She was going to scream or throw something or lose her mind._

 

_She didn’t realize she was heading to Nick’s apartment until she was on his doorstep, concern etched on his face as he opened the door. Asking her what was wrong, telling her to take a deep breath, that she needed to breathe. She couldn’t put words together to explain. And it wasn’t one or two things it was everything. Everything swallowing her, crushing her._

 

_She broke apart. Sobbing into her hands. He pulled her into his arms, and she cried into his chest and he walked her to his window seat and scooped her onto his lap. He rocked her and told her that he was there. That he’d protect her. That she could let it all out. That she was safe._

 

_And she believed him. It helped. Having someone witness her suffering, love her even when she was lost and broken._

 

_Nick never said it was ok. He knew better than that._

 

_But when they were together, everything was ok. As long as he was ok, she was ok. They had become each other’s home. Each other’s escape. They were all they had, but it was enough._

 

_When she calmed and quieted she pulled back and laughed. His shirt was soaked with her tears and snot and she could practically see an imprint of her face in the soft fabric of his brown cotton shirt. Nick didn’t look down at himself- he just smiled, happy with the improvement in her mood. He made her some tea and they laid on his bed - her back to his chest._

 

_And then they did something completely normal - they talked about movies. Nick liked rom-coms more than she did. Said he once got asked to leave a movie theater for crying too loudly at Sleepless in Seattle. Said his favorite movie ever was The Notebook. Somehow, neither of those facts surprised her. They fell asleep in each other’s arms._

 

That memory is painful now. Because he’s gone. She doesn’t know if he’s ok. She wants to believe that he’s safe. But she has no evidence. He could be dead. He could be in pain. All she knows for sure is that he’s gone. _There’s nothing. No xanax. No Nick. No hope. No escape._

 

“Something wrong with your food?”

 

June’s eyes snap open.

 

Beth is watching her with concern from across Lawrence’s kitchen.

 

June shakes her head rapidly, apologizing, trying to deflect. “No. Sorry. It’s good.”

 

Beth’s eyes narrow, sensing bullshit. “You haven’t touched it.”

 

Beth crosses to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Reading June’s face. She softens her voice, and a hint of her native French accent slips through. “What’s wrong?”

 

June shakes her head. She stares at the table, using her fork to push peas around on her plate. Not only does she have no interest in connecting, but she fucking hates peas too. She wishes she could leave. Be alone.

 

Beth sighs. Recognizing the symptoms, clear as day. The last time she saw someone this lovesick was the industrial kitchen at Jezebel’s. Nick never turned down free food. He loved her cooking. That’s how she knew he was a goner for June.

 

Her heart softens, watching the other half of this starcrossed couple suffer in his absence. It’s… romantic. Beautiful. Sacred. Something you just don’t see in Gilead. It’s also incredibly dangerous. Stupid even. _Better you than me_ . She thinks. _Better to avoid attachments._

 

Beth nods, looking down. Searching for the right words. “He’s a good one.”

 

June finds Beth’s eyes.

 

“He really likes you.” Beth continues, smiling kindly, nodding. “Don’t worry. He’s ok.” She says casually, finishing the awkward one sided girl talk with a knowing nod. Like she knew something June didn’t. Like she’d checked his Instagram that morning and found pictures of _nickblaine12_ sipping on a piña colada in Cancun.

 

June sits motionless. _He’s ok_?

 

Beth’s last sentence races around in her brain and she can feel the anger bubbling up inside her again. June knows she was only trying to connect, to make her feel better, but it’s the worst thing she could have said. Hitting right at the heart of her despair.

 

Beth stands, takes June’s plate, wraps it. “It’ll be in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

 

June ignores her. Pursing her lips and pushing her chair back with so much force it nearly topples over.

 

 _HE’S OK_ ? _You don’t fucking know that. I’m not a child and this isn’t a fucking Disney movie. He’s in Chicago at the warfront. Where unmarried officers are sent to die. They never come back. And he hasn’t written and he’s probably dead. Fuck you, Beth._

 

June shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest as she stands and walks quickly out of the kitchen. Refusing to cry. Refusing to break until she’s alone.

 

At the foot of the stairs Commander Lawrence steps in front of June abruptly, blocking her way. Looking at her with amusement, like he’s in on some secret joke. Like he’d been waiting for her.

 

It takes all of June’s strength not to roll her eyes. This is the last thing she needs right now. His bullshit on top of everything else.

 

“Your boyfriend is a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

 

June shakes her head, glaring at him. _What the fuck is this, talk about Nick day?_

 

Her anger quickly devolves into panic. _Oh God they know something I don’t. He’s hurt. Or worse. I don’t want to know. Please don’t be hurt._

 

Lawrence continues, oblivious to her distress. “He’s persistent. Like you. Good trait in a Lieutenant.”

 

June finally snaps, her tone sharp. “What are you _talking_ about?” She’s in no mood for this.

 

He carries on, letting her outburst slide. “I don’t make a lot of promises. But your Lieutenant Blaine has done a hell of a good job at the front. Keeping me removed from the politics out there, which is the way it should be. And he doesn’t take shit from anyone. I like it. I like him. Good kid.”

 

June shifts her weight. Staring daggers in to Lawrence’s eyes. Both eyebrows up, silently asking him to shut up or get to the point.

 

Lawrence pauses long enough to adjust his glasses before he continues his droning. “Anyway, since I do like him, I promised I’d deliver this _by hand_ ,” he says, emphasizing the last two words as he pulls an envelope out from under his vest. June feels her stomach drop to her feet as he offers it to her, her breath catching in her chest. “And I always keep a promise. So here, Madame Osborne, is your letter.”

 

June’s heart stops. She snatches the letter and hurries up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

 

“You’re welcome!” She hears Lawrence call out after her, but she doesn’t respond.

 

She rushes into her room, closing and locking her door, sliding down against it. It’s only then that she realizes she hasn’t taken a breath since Lawrence produced the letter from his pocket.

 

She closes her eyes and forces a slow breath. Then another.

 

She looks at the envelope in her shaking hands. It’s water stained. Badly crinkled, as though it’d been hidden, crumpled, jammed in various bags on it’s journey. It’s a miracle it made it here.

 

She opens it, unfolding the sheet of paper within, irritated when she sees only a few lines of writing.

 

 _Why is it so short? Something’s wrong._ The fear spiral starts up but she blows out a slow breath, forcing her mind to quiet. Focusing in on the letter itself. Using it to anchor herself in the present, to get out of her head.

 

_It’s ok. HE’S OK. This is from him. It’s finally happening. He got a letter to me. Nick doesn’t talk much. Of course it’s short._

 

Then she feels a flutter in her heart. Something coming alive after weeks of lying dormant.

 

Hope. 

 

She’s calm for the first time since DC. The voices in her mind are silent. Like they were whenever she was in his arms. _It’s like he’s here. In a way he is here. This is from him._

 

She takes in every detail she can. She runs her finger down the page, feeling where the ink has been scratched into the paper. _He made these marks. His hand was here._

  
She’s never seen Nick’s handwriting before, but somehow, she sees him in the letters on the page. His script is small and cramped, neater than most, but still boy’s handwriting. _It’s him._

 

_Hey,_

_Sorry it took so long. It’s me. I want to make sure this finds you._

_I’m safe. I miss you._

_What about you, you okay? Write back and we’ll see if this works. I hope it does._

_Stay safe,  
N_

 


	2. Chapter 2

Nick quit drinking and smoking the day he was deployed. And like everything else in Gilead, it hadn’t been his choice. He’d had to let the chemicals leave his system on the train to Chicago and it was easier to blame the headache and irritability on that than anything else. 

 

Whiskey was easy to give up. It was just a glass or two a night. The cigarettes were harder. He’d been up to a pack a day. It had been the main outlet for his stress. But there are no luxuries at the front. No books, no music, no booze, no cigarettes. _No comfort._ _No escape._

 

He spends most of his days now in a makeshift military office. A cramped, windowless tent. It’s cold. 65 degrees at most. Airless, poorly ventilated. Reeking of gas from the generator. 

 

Smoking had deadened his senses. Withdrawal has left him hyper alert, especially his sense of smell. Which is _not_ a good thing. Like this tent. He can tell it’s new from the smell of vinyl, but it’s also full of mold and mildew. _Like Gilead_. _Pious on the outside. Rotting on the inside._

 

The space is impersonal. Furnished with a desk, radio, phone and lamp. Stripped down. Militaristic. _Rectangular. Claustrophobic. Cold. Like a coffin. Or a prison cell._

 

Gilead is a machine, manned by a faceless army of interchangeable soldiers, and for the second time in his life, he’s one of them. 

 

He sits alone now. Brooding. Mind dark. Nerves irritable and oversensitive. Aware that he’s trapped. Unable to escape. Tapping his thumb nervously on the desk in front of him. Eyes unfocused. Ruminating. 

 

Wondering if June got his letter. 

 

He’d made it vague in case it got into the wrong hands. He hadn’t written her name. Too dangerous. But he’d included enough detail that she’d know it was him. He reviews the chain of people he’d trusted with that cargo. 

 

It took weeks to identify the Mayday contact at his camp. He had no clues. No contacts. No network. Spies trade in secrets. It’s almost impossible to get information without giving any away. All he had to communicate with were coded phrases and knowing looks. Not to mention, Nick is the first Mayday operative to rise to this rank in years. It takes extra time to earn trust as an officer. Once the first contact was secured he pieced together the Chicago network and traced it back to Boston. 

 

But the final link in the chain remained a mystery. Commander Lawrence. Lawrence had Mayday ties. But how deep were they? Was he actually trustworthy? No one knew. He was too high up. Nick was generally good at reading people, but Lawrence was an enigma. Hot and cold. Unpredictable. 

 

Nick refused to put June in any danger, and if Lawrence was a threat none of this would work. There was only one way to be sure. He’d have to test the waters himself.

 

Nick called him. A humiliating exercise but worth it to keep June safe. Lieutenants only call Commanders in extreme circumstances. It’s almost unheard of. Nick spent the twenty minute call briefing Lawrence on the latest intel from the front, trying his best to make it seem exceptionally relevant. Only at the very end of the call, after steeling himself, did he add his personal request. 

 

_“One more thing, Sir. If I may.”_

 

_“Yeah.”_

 

_“Your Handmaid.”_

 

_The pause on the line, crackling with static, took years off Nick’s life. His heart stopped completely._

 

_Lawrence finally clarified “June?”_

 

_Nick sighed with relief._

 

_“Yes Sir. I need to get something to her. It will come through your Martha.  Can you give it to her? Yourself? ...I’d...appreciate…”_

 

_Nick is cut off by laughter._

 

_“Is THAT why you called me? Next time lead with that, Blaine. It all makes sense now. Relax, Romeo. I’ve got you. You get it here, I’ll pass it along to your GIRLFRIEND. Myself. Personally.”_

 

_Nick swallows. Cheeks burning with embarrassment. Rubbing his forehead with his fingers._

 

_“Thank you, Sir.”_

 

_“Yeah. Just keep those other assholes out there off my back. Stall them. And don’t call me again unless it’s an actual emergency. Too risky.”_

 

_“Yes, Sir- thank….”_

 

_Nick hears a click. The line goes dead._

 

“Lieutenant Blaine, Sir. Orders for you to sign.”

 

Nick looks up to see a young Gilead soldier in the doorway. Ethan, he thinks. He tries to remember as many of their names as he can, but they rotate through so frequently. Nick nods and gestures to the desk. Disturbed at how young the man is. _Way too young. This kid can’t be over 17._ He swallows hard, coming to grips with the fact that this is really happening. He’s an officer again. The soldier delivers the file, salutes and leaves. 

 

Nick knows deep down that he can make a difference, use this position for good. That he has a chance to harm Gilead and prevent needless death. But it’s easy to lose hope. To feel like it’s all for nothing.

 

Pulling out of his dark thoughts, Nick flips the folder open, glancing over the orders. His brow knits together when he sees that they want him to sign off on a raid. 

 

 _Shit._ He’d held this off for weeks. Citing fictitious supply shortages and training delays, doing everything in his power to delay any actual fighting. But he was running out of viable excuses. 

 

There would be a raid at the rebel stronghold in Chicago. It would be his name on the order. _This is the death warrant for hundreds of people. Fuck._

 

He stares at the paper, unable to make himself sign it yet. Knowing he’ll have to. 

 

Nick closes the folder, slipping the rest of the mail into the briefcase. Needing time to think over his next move. Get word to the other side. Limit casualties. Maybe even delay it again. The weather, just like everything else, has been shitty too. Maybe Mother Nature can help him out.

 

He pulls on his overcoat, clicks the lamp off and steps outside into the cold Chicago wind. _Fucking freezing. Makes the tent feel like a sauna._ The earth is frozen solid beneath his boots. Tracks from the vehicles criss cross irregularly, an uneven terrain of valleys and ridges. 

 

The air is thick with fuel vapors. Oil, propane and gasoline. Exhaust and smoke. He raises his eyes as he passes the rows of tanks. Twenty five in total. Five rows of five. More on the way. Fifty cars. Thick plated armor, bullet proof windows. Twelve supply trucks. The other five are returning from the supply depots down south. 

 

The numbers form a mantra in his mind. He cycles through the numbers of men, soldiers, leaders. Every number he can remember. He’d learned quickly it was easier if you could think of everything as just numbers. 

 

 _Fifteen._ His mind always gets stuck on this one. _Fifteen officers before me. All dead within 6 months. Shortest deployment was 1 week, and it’s already been 2 months._

  
He passes the dining hall, stomach twisting at the smells of charcoal, burning flesh and rotting vegetable scraps. _Carnage. It smells like carnage and death._

 

The base is sprawled over what used to be a public park. 

 

Nick positioned his personal tent as far away from the rest of the camp as he could get away with. Using the walk back every evening to clear his mind. To try and feel normal for just a few minutes a day. 

 

Mercifully, he gets away from the camp proper. The noises from the base start to die out. The machines, generators, voices growing fainter. This place is nothing like the army from before. No laughter. No conversations. _This is a home for death, not people._

 

He hears birds now. Wind rustling the few dead leaves that cling to tree branches. The air is fresher here. He pulls in a deep breath. Enjoying the quiet. Finally able to hear signals from his body that he’d suppressed all day. Hunger. Deep and gnawing. The ever present cold. Bone deep. Stiffness from sitting all fucking day. Fatigue. Fear. Loneliness.  

 

He enters his tent. Struck with deja vu. Overwhelmed by the stink of vinyl, mold and propane. Single lamp. Single chair. A cot, a footlocker and a cooktop. Three pressed uniforms hanging in a row. Nothing personal. Nothing to make the space his. _I’m part of the machine, now. Every move prescribed. When I die they’ll replace me and no one will know any different. Nothing’s going to change. I can’t change anything about this. I’m going to die here._

 

His chest feels tight, he feels sick. There isn’t enough air. 

 

Nick pushes his panic back under the surface, trying to keep his shit together long enough to secure the classified documents. Numbers. Focusing on the numbers on the padlock. The ridges of the black dial turning under his shaking fingers. Lining the white numbers up in sequence. He stows the briefcase in the footlocker. Locking it away. Out of sight out of mind. At least for now. He stands and quickly walks back out into the cold.

 

He stands outside the tent with his eyes clenched shut. Breath leaving clouds as he pulls in much needed oxygen. Drawing deep breaths, focusing on the sounds of the birds. Once his heart stops pounding in his ears and the panic eases a bit, Nick opens his eyes. He turns the collar of his overcoat up against the biting wind, walking to the edge of the park, hands stuffed in his pockets for warmth. 

 

He makes his way to the top of a small hill and sits, overlooking the woods around him. Grounding himself by focusing on the trees. They way they bend in the wind. _This is better. This is real. This is like home._

 

When he was younger, they used to camp. Nick, Josh and their dad. For a month every summer on Mackinac Island. Back before everything went to shit. Back when he had a family. 

 

His only picture of Josh was from Mackinac. The last time they went. His dad took the picture. Gave them each a framed copy. 

 

Nick’s photo had gotten lost in the move. When he realized he’d left it behind he was devastated. It was one of the last good things he had. And like every other good thing in his life, Gilead took it from him. 

 

The memories of his family grow fainter every day. He tries to call them up as often as he can, remembering details. The way Josh laughed, the specific blue of June’s eyes, the weight of Holly in his arms. But they’re becoming harder to see. Josh is the faintest, then June, then Holly. _I can’t lose them. Without them I’ll have nothing. I’ll be nothing. No one. No past. No present. No future._

 

Nick sets his jaw. It’s fucking freezing, but that’s what he wants. Something physical to anchor him. A sensation strong enough to overpower the ache in his heart. After awhile the stinging in his skin turns to numbness. _Numbness is good. Numbness is better than fear._

 

He stays there on the hillside, even as it starts to snow. Refusing to return to his suffocating quarters. Remaining long after the sun dips below the horizon and the temperature drops in earnest. Only when he starts shivering, when the exhaustion from the day sets in, only then does he stand and reluctantly start the trek back to his tent. Praying he falls asleep quickly. 

 

He zips the tent shut to keep the freezing wind out, unlacing his boots, setting them by the door. He flips on the lamp. He hangs his coat over the chair to dry. He turns on his cookstove to make a cup of tea. _At least there’s still tea._

 

He retrieves the briefcase to leaf through the rest of the mail, trying to get it organized for tomorrow. Setting manila envelopes on the bed. Supply reports. Personnel lists. The orders for that fucking raid. _Shit._  

 

Something stands out in his peripheral vision. _A blank envelope_. His eyes widen, heart stopping in his chest. 

 

He slits it open with his finger and quickly pulls out the letter inside. Hand written. He recognizes June’s handwriting immediately.

 

 _It’s from her_. _Oh thank God. She’s ok. It worked._

 

His heart races. He feels almost dizzy from the rush of adrenaline and relief. His eyes fly over her words. Drinking them in as quickly as he can. Starved for her.

 

_Hi,_

_You found me  : )_

_I’m okay now that I have this. I was starting to worry. I thought you’d forgotten about me. Or you’d been hurt. I know I should have known better but it’s hard sometimes. Now that I have this, now that I know you’re ok, I’m ok. I’m glad this works because I miss you too._

_What about you? How are you? And I don’t want any of that cryptic non answer bullshit you like to do. We’re past that now. Talk to me. How are you, really?_

_I’m okay, all things considered. Lawrence is still batshit, but he gave me your letter so… I guess he’s not half bad. Beth has been a big help, keeping me connected to the underground. She’s a really great cook too. People trust her and so they trust me by association, I guess. It’s nice, but it’s not the same. Nothing is anymore. I hated that fucking house so much, I don’t miss it at all - but I miss having you nearby. Wondering if I’ll see you around the corner, in the yard. I took that for granted. It was the best part of the day. Things are harder without you. I wish you were still that close._

_Be safe, okay? I need to see you again._

_Take care,_  
_J_

Nick lowers his head to his hands. Barely breathing. Flooded with relief. Overwhelmed with gratitude. A beaming smile overtakes his face. 

 

He starts to read her letter again, only then noticing how badly the paper is shaking in his trembling hands. The warmth in his heart, the hope pumping through his veins hadn’t done anything to warm his body. 

 

He puts the letter down carefully on his cot, smoothing it flat with a caring touch. 

 

He changes out of his wet clothes, hanging them to dry. He slips into sleep sweats, fixes a steaming cup of chamomile tea and wraps up in his rough grey blanket. Settling back on the cot with a blank sheet of paper and pen. Using the back of his briefcase as a hard surface. 

 

He pauses. Trying to decide what to say. How much to share. 

 

He glances at the letter next to him, rereading her line about cryptic bullshit non-answers and smiling. Hearing her voice in it. Loving that she’s calling him out, in advance, from hundreds of miles away. _Keeping me in check. Even now._

 

He considers the most honest answer possible. _She wants honesty? Fuck it._ He scribbles his response: 

 

_Dear June,_

_I feel like shit. I’m miserable. I hate it here._

_Love, Nick_

He smirks as he reads it over. She’d kill him if that was all she got. He imagines her next reply. 

 

_Dear Nick,_

_Fuck you._

_Love, June_

He smiles widely as he balls up the page, grabbing a fresh sheet. _No sense worrying her. Won’t help anything._

 

He reads her letter one more time, slowly. Her handwriting brings memories flooding back from the Boston Globe. June’s handwriting- like her real name, was his secret to keep. He knew something about this woman that no one else in Gilead would ever know. 

 

She always woke up before him- and she’d leave him little notes when she went for a jog around the building. She didn’t want him to worry about her while she was gone. 

 

He used to stand and sip his coffee, watch her working on her newspaper clippings from the doorway of their makeshift bedroom. She always sat cross legged when she wrote. And she chewed the end of her pen while she read. 

 

He imagines her sitting somewhere and writing this. Probably her room at Lawrence’s. Probably on her bed. Cross legged. Chewing on her pen. He can see her. Clear as day.

 

He puts the paper aside and starts his response. 

 

_J,_

_I could never forget you. It’s not possible._

_Sorry it took so long. It took awhile to figure out who I could trust. It shouldn’t take as long now that I know who to contact. I knew who I could trust there. I had to start over out here._

_It sucks. Everything here sucks. I forgot how cold it is in Chicago. Colder than Boston. And I’m used to cold, growing up in Michigan was at least good for that. But it never seemed this cold when I was with you. I guess I got used to that._

Nick’s eyes close as he’s overtaken by an intense, visceral memory. The heat between their bodies. He can feel it. It was like burning alive. He remembers her- he can feel her- the weight of her on his lap, legs wrapped around him. Surrounding him. Moving against him. Her sighs in his ear as they make love. The taste of her sweat as he kisses her neck. Their skin burning with fever. Hot to the touch. Intense warmth floods his veins again as his body remembers her. Healing all of the broken places in his heart. 

 

He opens his eyes and continues writing. Faster now. Pausing frequently, but not stopping. Words pouring out of him. 

 

_I miss you too._ _So much._

_I don’t miss that house either, but I miss seeing you around it. I miss sneaking into the kitchen every morning hoping I’d catch you at breakfast. And I miss a lot of things I hadn’t thought I would. I miss the car. I miss Rita’s chicken. I’m not sure what she did to it, but it was incredible. The food here sucks, by the way. It’s always cold by the time I get it._

_I do at least get my own tent though. That’s been nice, having a little bit of privacy but… I’d trade it in a second to be closer to you. What we had… what we made...it wasn’t much, but it was home. You made it feel like home. This isn’t home._

_Hearing from you helps, though. More than you’ll ever know._

_It felt like home when I read this._

_Miss you,_  
_N_

 


	3. Chapter 3

She keeps his letters under her mattress. The pen and paper she’d gotten from Beth live there too. It’s the safest place she can keep them under the circumstances. And even if she did have a  _ better _ place to keep them - she likes them there. Sometimes she can’t sleep, and remembering they’re there is enough to lull her to sleep. It keeps him close, and in his absence, it’s the next best thing to actually having him in her bed.

 

They’ve fallen into a routine. It takes about two weeks for her letters to make it to him. So she writes him once a week. Sometimes more, if she feels like she can get away with it. She sends as many as she can without feeling like a nuisance, trying to keep his spirits high.

 

Nick’s first letter reminded June of the ones she’d sent home the summer she’d been twelve and forced to go to summer camp in Vermont.  _ ‘There’s too many bugs. It’s hot. Jessica Walker slept on the bunk above me and snored all night long.’ _ A bunch of trivial complaints all adding up to the same thing - I miss home. I miss feeling like I’m at home. It’s why she tries to keep the stream of letters constant.

 

Right now she sits cross legged, his letters scattered all around her on her bed. Surrounded by him, trying to put him together through these pages like he’s jigsaw puzzle and these are the pieces. What has she learned about Nick from these words?

 

She’s learned that summer is his favorite season. She’s learned that pasta is Beth’s specialty and she should ask for it sometime. He’s afraid of bees and he hates mustard. The Detroit Tigers are his favorite baseball team. He’d been to Chicago once before to see them play the Cubs with his dad and brother. Those were the earlier letters. They were always underlined with worry and longing, but he’d opened up more than even she’d expected. She loved it.

 

But then something changed. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but suddenly things were darker. His letters got shorter. She picks up one of the latest and her brow furrows as she studies the lines on the page, barely covering half of it.  _ This is all bigger than me. What am I doing here? Who am I helping?  _ There’s no lightheartedness in them anymore - no stories, no facts, no anecdotes. And nothing she sends him seems to help. Each one of his responses comes back feeling more hopeless, more despondent. The lonely kid at camp has been replaced with a forlorn soldier and it terrifies her because she’s been there. She let this place break her and it’d almost cost her her life. She can’t let it break him.

 

She sighs as she turns and picks up a blank sheet of paper and her pen, bringing it to her lips. It’s so hard to know what to say when the words she’s reading are two weeks old. And words are only good for so much anyway. Especially with Nick. If he was here she’d go to his apartment and give him a hug, lay with him in bed until they both fell asleep. She’d make a bad joke and he’d laugh at it. What does he need to hear  _ now _ ?

 

And then suddenly, she knows what she’s going to do. What she’ll say. She presses her lips together in a smile as she brings the pen down from her lips and starts writing.

 

* * *

_ The raid happened. He’d pushed it back as long as he could. He’d delayed training, redirected supplies - he’d even gotten help from an unusually strong snow storm that nearly shut down the whole base for three days. _

 

_ Nick tried to send his Mayday contact to warn the rebels. Hoping they could vacate the stronghold before Gilead forces arrived, or at least prepare for their arrival. But the snowstorm hit, making that impossible. No one could leave. Phone lines were down. There was no way to send word.  _

 

_ The raid occurred the day after the snow stopped falling. He’d tried to delay it again, but someone higher than him overturned his decision. Suddenly, the snowstorm he’d been so grateful for was his worst nightmare. He wouldn’t be able to get word to them. _

 

_ So that evening, on his orders - it happened. He sat back in a command center, out of harm’s way, surrounded by Commanders congratulating themselves on a job well done as reports started trickling in over the radio from Sergeants in the field. They congratulated him too. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep his face even; his fists balled tight at his sides, every muscle in his body coiled up tightly, like a spring about to snap. _

 

_ Being there was almost worse. He found himself imagining the gunshots. The screaming. If he was on the front line at least he could focus on the adrenaline. He could compartmentalize all of that and focus on survival. But this? This was nearly torture. Sending people to die. To kill. Unable to help them. Unable to stop the slaughter while trapped in a room with other men celebrating the losses as a success.  _

 

_ He went back to his tent after it was over expecting a release that never came. He stayed awake all night. _

 

Three days later, Nick sits at the desk in his makeshift office reading a preliminary report. His jaw clenches tight as he reads the celebratory language on the page in front of him.  _ Huge success. Stronghold captured.  _

 

_ I did this. I helped Gilead. My fault. _

 

He flips to the next page. It’s numbers. Numbers are usually good - normally he seeks them out. They make his day easier. But then his eye catches the title at the top of the page.

 

_ CASUALTY REPORT _

 

He closes his eyes as he breathes in deep through his nose, willing the nausea to subside. The numbers won’t be a comfort here. They’ll make it worse. 

 

_ All these people, hundreds of them, dead. My fault. _

 

He opens his eyes and makes himself look at their names. It’s the least he can do. He recognizes some of them. They’re young. Kids. Most of the people reporting to him wouldn’t have even been old enough to vote before.  _ And now they’re dead.  _ He tries to force his mind to go back to the numbers now, to pull himself out of this, but he can’t. He’s too deep in his own head.

 

He flips the page and it doesn’t help.  _ More names. _ His eyes scan over the page land on Ethan’s name, the kid who delivered his mail. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to vomit. Ethan had just turned seventeen. Nick remembers what he’d been doing at seventeen. Finishing high school, saving to buy a car. He worked part time at a grocery store. It’s what all of these kids should have been doing. But just like Eden, they’re all dead for this shitty place that doesn’t even think twice about their lives. This place that drowns people for falling in love. This place that rapes women and kidnaps newborns and rips families apart and takes every good decent thing from everyone. 

 

_ I couldn’t save Eden. I can’t save any of them. All these kids died alone. Cold. Afraid. In pain. They were my responsibility. I should have protected them. It’s my fault.  _

 

Nick thinks of Ethan’s family. Another casualty. Ethan had a little sister, a mom and dad. He couldn’t wait to show them his uniform. Nick thinks of all the families, all the names that aren’t on this report. And the rebels. There were more rebels than Gilead soldiers. Hundreds more. And  _ their _ families. Jesus. It could be a thousand. Lives shattered. Used by the Gilead war machine. Chewed up and spit out. Destroyed. Then effortlessly replaced, like old car parts. 

 

_ I should have done something. I should have fucking stopped this. _

 

“Lieutenant Blaine?” 

 

Mercifully, he’s pulled out of his thoughts by a young soldier at the opening of his tent, shifting anxiously in his boots. He straightens his cap on top of his mess of red hair. He’s new. Brand new. Nick doesn’t even know his name. He can’t bring himself to ask.

 

“Orders for you to sign, sir,” Nick nods and motions to his desk. The young soldier heads into the tent, drops the orders on his desk, salutes, and then heads back out into the chilly Chicago air. 

 

And just like that, Ethan’s been replaced. They’d assigned a new soldier to deliver the mail. It hadn’t even skipped a day. Business as usual. Just another cog in the machine. His stomach sinks as he realizes this is what he is too. Replaceable. Just like everyone else in Gilead, he’s only as good as the uniform on his back. 

 

_ I’m an officer in the evil empire. Here to serve Gilead until I die too. How the fuck did this happen. This is my worst fucking nightmare. I could leave but nothing would change. Someone else would sign the orders. The machine would keep running. Nothing stops it. _

 

He reaches over and flips open the first folder on top of the newly delivered stack, hoping for something, anything else to focus on. He’d kill for a fucking supply order right now. But a supply order isn’t what he gets. His brow knits together as he recognizes this document, heart dropping into his stomach. His world starts to go black around the edges, the floor like quicksand beneath his feet.

 

_ Another raid.  _

 

His eyes fly over the details. Bigger this time. At a different rebel stronghold further from the city.  _ More loss. More death. But it won’t happen without my name. Without my order. My raid. My war. My fault.   _

 

_ I can’t do this. I can’t be here. _ Quickly he shuts the folder, gathering the stack of files and envelopes off his desk. He doesn’t even bother with his briefcase or overcoat, he can’t stand to be in that office a second longer. He presses the papers under his arm and hurries quickly back to his tent before he does something stupid, like cry where people can see him.

 

When he makes it back to his tent he drops all of the papers unceremoniously on his cot, the whole mess spreading out over his grey blanket. He’s just about to turn away, unable to look at any of it any longer, when he does a double take. 

 

A plain white envelope. Water stained and wrinkled. Half hidden under a map of rebel bases.

 

He pushes the other papers aside and sits, pulling the envelope out of the mess of Gilead papers. Greedily he rips into it, needing June and her words desperately. More now than ever before.

_ N, _

_ How are you?  Is it still cold as balls there? You should make them give you a space heater or an extra blanket or something. You're an officer now, just command someone to do it! _

_ It's cold here too. I think it snowed, like, six feet over the weekend. We couldn’t get outside for three days. Funny how anywhere starts to feel like prison when you can’t leave it.  So your letters help me too. They always feels like an escape. I really look forward to them. They're the best part of the week. _

_ And you know, you always made me feel warmer too, literally. Because you’re like a furnace by the way. I always hated having to go back to my room for so many reasons, but that was one of the biggest. I had to leave my own personal space heater behind. _

_ I'm sorry the food sucks there. Not to rub it in your face but Beth is a GREAT cook. Speaking of great cooks, I saw Rita the other day at Loaves and Fishes. She asked about you. She misses you too. I told her I’d tell you, and she said to tell you to be safe and “not do anything stupid.” I told her that was wishful thinking and she shouldn’t get her hopes up.  _

_ I didn’t get a chance to ask about her chicken though. I wanted to, since I know you miss it so much.  _

_ I was thinking... I could have her whip up a batch, and ask the network if they could do a "rush delivery" just this once. I’d use Uber Eats but I don’t think they still exist. You think Amazon is still around? I miss Prime. They’d get it to you in under two days. Two weeks just won’t cut it, though. Not for chicken. But if you really miss it, you know me, I’ll figure something out. _

_ I know I say this all the time, but sometimes things suck and you just have to hang on. I know we'll get through this. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’ll survive the cold and the bad food, I know you will. We’ll survive this. We’ve survived worse already, right? _

_ I’ll see you soon.  _

_Miss you too,  
J _

Nick closes his eyes and feels himself doing something he hasn’t done in weeks. Smiling. 

 

_ She’s still so bad at making jokes.  _

 

He runs his eyes over the lines about Uber Eats and Amazon again, his smirk growing wider as he shakes his head. _Well, maybe_ _these actually aren’t half bad._ _Mayday delivering takeout. That’s fucking funny, June._

 

He reads it again, unable to stay lost in his own head. The storm of guilt and self hatred quieting as his eyes roam the page. He can hear her voice, telling him to hang on. That they’ll survive. He listens. He believes her.

 

Normally, he waits until evening to write her back, just before he goes to sleep. Those are the only nights he sleeps well. 

 

But today, he can’t wait. He has to talk to her, to connect right now. Quickly, he opens his footlocker and retrieves a pen and a blank sheet of paper. He pulls a thick file out from the mess of papers on his cot as he sits down and as he glances over her letter one last time, he begins to write:

_ J, _

_ You know, I may be a bad flirt but your jokes are absolutely terrible. I needed it today, though. Thank you.  _

_ Before when I said these letters help more than you’ll ever know, I meant it. I lost people. It was my fault. I couldn’t stop it. I tried. It’s all I’ve been trying to do since I’ve been here, minimize the losses wherever I could. But so many people died, people on both sides and I signed the orders. Most of them were kids, like Eden. They should have been playing football or getting ready for Homecoming. They had their whole lives ahead of them, but they’re all dead. And for what? For Gilead? This country only cares about power. It doesn’t give a shit about any of these people. About any of us.  _

_ I shouldn’t have pushed you away when Eden died. I’m sorry. I should have let you in. I didn’t sleep for days. I thought I could handle it on my own. I couldn’t. And I thought it was bad then. This is so much worse. At least I had you then.  _

_ I used to feel like you were too far away. When I missed you, I’d walk out to my balcony just to look at your window. And it helped. Even if I couldn’t see you in it. Just knowing you were there made the pain stop. I knew I could walk across the yard and find you if I had to. I’d plan whole days around running into you. Those little moments were everything. You were all I had. But I took it for granted. Took you for granted. I should have come more. I thought you’d always be there, just across the yard. I can’t see your window now. Now I don’t even have a window. I just have a tent and a cot. I’m so fucking alone, all the time.  _

_ I thought we were far apart at the Waterford's but that was nothing compared to this. This is too much. I miss you so much I can hardly stand it some nights. But knowing I have this, that we have these letters, it keeps me going. They’re the only good thing I have left. I love you. Write back. _

_Love,  
N _

_ P.S. Do  _ _ NOT _ _ send chicken. _


	4. Chapter 4

It isn’t a _good_ day. There are no good days in Gilead. But, for the first time since his deployment, the day hasn’t been complete shit. 

 

The weather has turned. It’s warmer out. There’s more sunlight, less darkness. Tiny green leaves are peeking out on tree branches. The frozen ground is thawing. The air smells sweeter. An earlier sunrise even means waking up to birds singing, like he used to before. 

 

Nick feels a tentative sense of hope. That there could be another season. A second act. Maybe even for him. He’s already outlived the Lieutenants before him. Maybe his story will be different. Maybe he can make a difference somehow. Hope isn’t a feeling he indulges often. He prefers to keep his mind nervous, searching for traps and danger. But fuck it. Maybe he can have one day off from worry and guilt. One day to just feel normal. 

 

He checks his watch. 4:30pm. Maybe he can get back to his tent earlier tonight and have some time to himself. He’d found a deck of playing cards. He used to love solitaire. Maybe he’ll even have energy for that tonight. There are no scheduled meetings left today. 

 

He decides to go for it. Pack up early. He’ll review his mail later. June had just written four days ago. He knows he won’t hear from her again for weeks, so there’s no incentive to check immediately, especially if he wants to maintain his mood. He packs up quickly, scooping the files into his briefcase.

 

He walks slowly. Unhurried for the first time ever on the base. Letting his muscles relax. Breathing more deeply. Allowing his mind to quiet. Allowing the usual conditioned barrage of worried thoughts to evaporate. _Not today. It’s ok. Today’s a good day._  

 

As soon as the anxiety quiets, he feels a sharp pang as his stomach twists with hunger. Fear usually wins out as the strongest signal in his body- but he’d given fear the day off. So the gnawing pit in his stomach leaps to the forefront, demanding attention. _Sure. We’ve got time. Let’s get something to eat. Why not. It’s a good day today._

 

When he enters the dining hall, Nick is immediately reminded of why he avoids it. It’s the only place people really get social with each other and it’s loud. Housed across the street from the base in what used to be an old rec center, the sound of soldiers laughing, yelling, and eating all reverberate off the walls. The smells are almost unbearable too - day old soups and used cooking oil all stinking up the place like bad elementary school food.

 

But he has to eat, and he knows he’s all out of his stash of oranges, peanut butter, and protein bars that he’d been living on out of his tent so today’s visit is a necessary one. He puts his head down as he pushes quickly into the main hall even though dinner time is starting, hoping he can make a quick exit and still have time to go for a walk before the sun goes down.

 

He’s just finished loading his bag down with oranges. He’s debating if going to ask for a jar of peanut butter is worth it or if he should just sneak in early tomorrow morning when a heavy hand clamps down on his left shoulder.

 

_Fuck._

 

His eyes squeeze shut as the boisterous voice of Commander Payton rings out behind him. He’d been lucky and managed to avoid the parade of Commanders that had all shown up at the base today, eager to discuss the success of the latest raid. He can’t stand them. They all remind him of Fred. Slimy and with no real concept of the danger he’s in out here with these soldiers. If Gilead is a machine, these men are at the controls - serving only themselves.  

 

“Sir,” Nick says flatly as he turns to face the Commander. He’s older than some of the others with greying blond hair, a salt and pepper goatee, and glasses. He reminds Nick of one of his dad’s fishing buddies. He swallows hard at the thought. In another lifetime, he might have actually liked this man.

 

“We’ve been looking for you all day, Blaine,” Commander Payton says. “We want to congratulate you on your successes.”

 

Nick bites the inside of his lip, nodding his head tightly. He doesn’t want to be congratulated. He hates this. He needs to get away, he can feel the walls starting to close in. 

 

“Come sit with us,” the Commander insists and Nick feels his stomach drop to his feet. He takes a deep breath as his eyes dart towards the door. Quickly he tries to think of something, anything, he can make up to get out of this, but it’s the end of the day. There’s nothing. 

 

“We have quite a bit we can discuss.” Commander Payton’s voice is different now. It’s not an invitation, it’s an order.

 

Nick nods as he closes up his bag, resigned to his fate. “Yes, sir.”

 

_There’s no such thing as a good day in Gilead._

 

Loud, raucous laughter erupts from the table of Commanders as Nick and Commander Payton approach. Nick doesn’t even want to know what they were laughing at as he takes a seat at the end of the table, trying to keep as much distance from the group as he can. He folds his hands together on the table in front of him, keeping his head down. He gets only a few seconds of respite from the group before he’s pulled into the conversation.

 

“Blaine,” a different Commander, one he doesn’t know, calls his name, forcing him to look up, “glad you’ve decided to join us.”

 

_I didn’t._

 

He nods tersely. “I appreciate the invitation.” He knows he’s just playing a part, but he still hates himself every time he has to turn on and play Nick Blaine, Gilead Lieutenant. 

 

“We were just discussing the upcoming raid,” a third Commander, one he does know, Commander Wallis, chimes in from three seats down, and Nick focuses his attention on him. “Trying to plan ahead a little with deployments, you know, but we have a bet going. How many men did we lose in the previous raid?”

 

Nick’s blood turns to ice. He knows this number, exactly. He’s been stuck on it for weeks now. “272, Sir.” 

 

Down at the opposite end of the table, Commander Payton claps his hands together and pumps one fist as the other men around him groan and shake their heads. “I was right! I said it was about 250!”

 

Nick’s hand curls into a fist. Almost 300 people died and these men turned it into a guessing game to play over dinner. His appetite is gone. Replaced with white hot rage.

 

Once the table quiets down again, Commander Wallis is all business again. “We expect the losses after the next raid to be about double, is that correct?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Nick replies flatly. He’s completely on autopilot now. Desperate for an escape that won’t come. 

 

“Atlanta is in my district. We have more than enough men to send you. Won’t be needed in Florida. I’ll send them your way when it’s time.”

 

“Appreciate it,” Nick replies in monotone. 

 

“Young ones, too. True believers. Eager. Should be easy to train.”

 

A fourth Commander named Spitzer, sitting directly left of Nick, claps his hand once on Nick’s back like they’re best friends. Nick’s skin crawls, shoulders tensing under the unwanted touch. 

 

“Just think, Blaine...this next raid could end it all, Gilead will take Chicago, and you’ll get to leave this shithole with a promotion.”

 

_There’s no leaving this shithole unless it’s in a body bag._

 

“Go back to DC, get yourself a wife.”

 

“Handmaid, too.” 

 

Nick’s eyes flicker shut briefly before he forces them open again. “Of course. Can’t wait.” He hears the words leave his mouth as he withdraws further into himself. 

 

 _You’re fucking monsters._ _God help me. I can’t do this._

 

The Commanders all laugh and give each other knowing looks and elbows.

 

“What’s your type? Big? Small? Blonde? Brunette? You can make arrangements, you know. The Aunts take special requests, and we’ll put in a good word for you.”

 

“And then... if you have a child, the opportunities will be endless for you, Blaine, especially after all the great work you’ve done for Gilead out here.”

 

“Gilead rewards those who live by its values.” Nick repeats the expected response, hearing himself mimic Fred Waterford, parroting back words he’d spoken to him before. Vomit rises in his throat. He swallows it down. _Breathe. Fucking breathe._

 

The voices drop to hushed whispers and murmurs. Nick looks around to see the circle of commanders eyeing him hungrily. He hears fragments. Another running bet. Another question they’ve been asking each other. “Ask him.” “You ask him.” When he hears enough to know where the next inquiry is going, he feels his mind shutting down. His eyes return to the table where his hands meet. He uses every ounce of strength to keep his face blank as the voices grow louder, bolder. 

 

“What _really_ happened, Blaine? With your wife?”

 

“We saw your file.” 

 

“He was married?”

 

“She was pretty.”

 

“Young, too. _Ripe."_

 

“She ran off with a Guardian. Wouldn’t confess.”

 

“Slut.”

 

“He didn’t know?”

 

“Couldn’t keep her satisfied?”

 

“Too lenient?”

 

“Hadn’t finished her obedience training, apparently.”

 

“Won’t make _that_ mistake again.”

 

The voices continue in a storm around him. Nick’s vision has blurred. He’s simply focused on breathing now. Willing the tears and vomit to wait just a few more minutes. Knowing they’ll be done having their fun with him soon enough. He’ll be released after they use him. That’s how the machine works, used up and then discarded and forgotten when you have nothing to offer anymore. 

 

“We’ll make sure your next one can’t run Blaine. Leg weights maybe?” The table erupts in laughter. Men howling and pounding and laughing and clapping rowdily. 

 

_And blissfully. He feels nothing. It’s all gone. Their voices are muted. Like they’re miles away. He hears his breath. Feels it at the edge of his nostrils. He hears his heart. He feels it pulsing steadily against his rib cage. But the anger is gone. It was too big. It’s been released. Like doves or balloons. It’s finally quiet. Peaceful. Like that time he broke his arm in 5th grade and they gave him morphine in the ER to set it. He watched the liquid drip from the bag into his vein. And the pain stopped. It was just like this._

 

“Lieutenant Blaine?” 

 

Nick blinks and turns his head to the right. Tyler, the young soldier who delivers his mail, stands at full attention. 

 

Nick looks up, eyes narrowing, trying to hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Tyler clears his throat, quickly saluting as his eyes roam over the table of Commanders, all of them staring at him with contempt. His eyes land back on Nick’s. “Sir, sorry to interrupt.” Nick nods his head and Tyler relaxes slightly before continuing.

 

“Sir, there’s a problem with some of the new ammunition that just arrived. Sergeant O’Hara sent me to find you.”

 

Nick doesn’t remember any supplies that were scheduled to come in today, but he doesn’t care. He’s got an escape and he’s taking it. 

 

Quickly, he stands and gathers his bag, starting to come out of his haze. He hears one of the Commanders say they’ll come see him in the morning as he motions for Tyler to go ahead of him and he quickly makes his way out of the dining hall, gulping in fresh air as soon as he’s outside. He feels himself slowly starting to come back to his senses as Tyler stands next to him patiently.

 

“Sorry,” Nick apologizes quickly, trying to deflect, “it was loud in there.” He takes a deep breath as he recalls why he’s here and not still caught like a mouse in a trap. The supplies. Ammunition. “What’s the problem?”

 

“Oh,” Tyler begins with a shrug, a sly smirk spreading across his face, “there’s no problem.”

 

Nick shakes his head, not understanding. He thought he’d heard him say there was a problem. How out of touch had he been? 

 

“You looked upset and I know those guys are assholes,” Tyler explains. “I thought maybe I could help you out. I made it up.”

 

Nick scoffs as he looks at the young man in front of him. He’s barely seventeen years old, away from his family, fighting a war that isn’t his and somehow he found the courage to approach a table of his superiors and pull Nick away from a situation he didn’t even have the ability to remove himself from. Someone had looked out for him. It’s the smallest gesture but it drops like a two ton weight in Nick’s stomach. In this place where kindness dies and no one cares, someone had. 

 

Nick swallows hard as he nods. He feels the tears he’d pushed back earlier rise to the surface again, a dam near it’s breaking point. “Thank you,” he says as he clears his throat, swallowing the lump, willing it to stay down until he can get somewhere private. Tyler nods as he looks at Nick carefully, like he’s a bomb about to go off.

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Tyler says with another shrug. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

Nick nods and Tyler smiles at him, a real smile, happy to have helped someone he likes. “Cool. Night, Lieutenant Blaine.” He salutes quickly and then turns and jogs back off in the direction of the camp. Nick stands still for a few seconds more, gathering himself, before quickly making a beeline for his tent. There will be no walk tonight. He needs to be alone, he can’t risk running into anyone else.

 

When he makes it back into his tent he drops his bag on the cot, immediately turning to zip the entrance closed. He doesn’t usually get bothered, but he needs to make sure he’s left alone now. As soon as he’s closed himself off from the outside world he turns around, standing still, looking around at the things in the tent, trying to ground himself but finding it nearly impossible. There’s nothing to bring him comfort. _Nothing here belongs to me._ _I have nothing._

 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, trying to clear his mind of what just happened with the Commanders but knowing he won’t be able to. Their words swirl around him on repeat like a hellish echo chamber. _They think I’m one of them. Monsters. That’s who I’m fighting for. They think I want this._

 

His eyes flutter open after a long moment and drift over to his bag, the closest thing he has to a personal belonging. He swallows hard as he stares, feeling an almost inexplicable pull towards it. 

 

Slowly, he steps over to his cot, sitting down and unlatching the bag, flipping it open, oranges falling out and rolling across the ground. He catches one and looks at it in his hand. Is he just hungry? He rolls it around in his palm for a second before discarding it and going back to the bag. He’s still not hungry. He pulls out his stack of folders and mail and starts leafing through it. Maybe he’s just looking for a distraction and he knows this is the best place to find it.

 

And then he flips over a page and an envelope flutters free, falling and landing on his boots, plain and unmarked and looking worse for the wear. His breath hitches as he stares at it.

 

_But I just got a letter. It can’t be June._

 

Without a second thought, he bends over and rescues the envelope from his feet, refusing to let himself believe it’s from her as he slits the top of the envelope open with his finger, his hands shaking as he pulls out the paper. He needs it, he needs her so much right now it hurts to breathe, but he doesn’t dare hope. His breath rattles as he unfolds it slowly, silently praying that he’ll see her handwriting. 

_N,_

_So- I’m worried about you. I mean, I’ve always been worried about you, since the second you told me you were getting deployed, but I’m really worried now. And I know you, you’ll probably read this and start to beat yourself up for worrying me, but don’t._

_You don’t have to be strong all the time. You_ _can’t_ _be strong all the time. No one can. Not me or you or anybody. It’s not possible. That’s why we have each other. I’ll be strong when you can’t. And right now I’m telling you to let me be the strong one. I can tell you’re not ok._

_Hold on, Nick. Do not give up on me. You did the best you could. You’ve always done the best you could. For Eden, for me, for everyone. None of this is your fault. You’re doing enough. You’re more than enough. You helped me survive. Do not let this place break you._

_You know what I did last night? I wrote a letter to Holly. The network found a way to get things in and out of Canada. They got me a letter from Moira, she managed to include a few pictures of Holly. She’s so big now and she has your hair. Your smile, too. You have so much to live for. You have Holly. She needs you too. Write her a letter. I can get it to her, I promise. She needs to know her daddy. She needs to know how much you love her. But more than that, she just needs to know you. How much you wish you could be with her. How you’ll be with her as soon as you can._

_Please, write her something. I think it’ll help. I’ll get it to her, I promise. And I promise we’ll find each other. You’ll get to me, and I’ll get to you. We’ll make it. Just don’t give up. Hang on a little longer. I know you can._

_I love you,  
J _

_P.S. You need them more than I do._

He closes his eyes, head bowing down as he finishes reading the letter, clutching it like his only lifeline. He has no idea how June does it- somehow knowing exactly what he needs to hear. 

 

He lifts his head back up, clearing his throat, looking at the paper again, skimming over her words, his eyebrows furrowing together at the last line.

 

_You need them more than I do._

 

He recalls the letter from a few weeks ago where she’d mentioned Rita and briefly wonders if there’s a package of chicken that he should be expecting next. 

 

He shakes his head as he reads the line again. _You need THEM more than I do._

 

He turns the letter over in his hands, checking the back. Nothing. _What’s them?_ He sets the letter down next to him on the cot, picking up the envelope, opening it wider and looking inside. Did he miss something?

 

And then he sees them. Two small squares, pressed into the corner of the envelope. In his excitement to see if she’d written again, he’d almost missed this.

 

With a trembling hand, he reaches into the envelope and as soon as his fingers touch the glossy photo paper, the stock heavier under his fingers than regular paper, he knows what they are. 

 

He swallows hard as he flips the pictures over so he can see them. On top is a close up picture of Holly with a face splitting grin, two tiny teeth poking up from her bottom gums, a sheen of drool on her little chin. Her big blue eyes are narrowed in happiness as she smiles, wispy dark curls untamed on the top and sides of her head. _She looks happy._

 

He feels himself start to smile as he drinks in her grin, the same one he shares with her. He runs his finger over her chubby little cheek in the picture. 

 

_Hi, sweetheart._

 

With shaking hands, he shuffles the pictures so he can look at the next photo. In this one, Holly’s sleeping flat on her back in her crib wearing nothing but a tiny purple and white striped shirt and a diaper but she’s turned completely sideways, both of her little bare feet up and resting on the slats of the crib. Both of her hands are above her head, curled into tiny fists. Nick feels himself laugh at how uncomfortable her sleeping position appears but comfort washes over him knowing that she’s able to sleep soundly. It’s all he wants for her. _She’s safe._

 

He takes both pictures, one in each hand and holds them side by side, heart swelling as he looks at his daughter - happy, perfect, and safe. 

 

But at the same time a chasm opens up in his chest, a rift so wide he doesn’t know how he’ll ever repair it. 

 

_She’s so fucking far away._

 

He’s not with her. June’s not with her. They’re all impossibly far apart. Holly might never meet them. She might never know her real family. The thought is unbearably painful. That they’ve been separated for no good reason. Kept apart by war. By this fucking place and those monsters he’d been trapped with earlier. His heart breaks as he realizes that he might never hold her again, that these two photos might be the last time he can even see her. His repressed despair, rage and grief swell to the surface all at once, swirling inside him like a hurricane. 

 

A tear falls on Holly’s face and quickly he wipes it away. He can’t let anything happen to these pictures. They’re more precious to him than gold. But then another tear falls. And another. 

 

He sets the pictures of Holly down carefully next to him on his cot, face dropping into his hands. Months of pent up pain flowing through him as he cradles his head in his hands. He surrenders, letting the tears come. Not even trying to stop them, knowing he can’t. The sadness is too deep. There’s too much of it. He can’t bear it a second longer. The dam that he’d so desperately kept closed since he got here breaks wide open. 

 

Hard sobs wrack his whole body. For Holly and June. For himself. For Eden and Ethan. He tries to keep quiet as all of the poison he’d held in his heart floods out violently. Guilt, shame, anger, hatred, longing, hopelessness. He sobs brokenly, finally releasing every painful, damaged feeling that’s been trapped inside him for as long as he can remember. 

 

His breaths come in deep shudders as the tears finally start to slow down. He wipes his face, feeling better. Completely fucking drained, but better. 

 

He lays back on his cot, deep fatigue setting in. He rolls to his side, holding Holly’s pictures and June’s letter where he can see them as his eyes glaze over and his swollen eyelids grow heavy. He brings them in close to his body, curling them to his chest, drifting into sleep before the sun sets, June and Holly right against his heart, holding them as close as he can. 

 

_I love you both so much._

 

* * *

  
  
When he wakes, it’s dark. 

 

He blinks sleepily as he rolls over to rest flat on his back, hearing nothing but crickets chirping outside. He lifts his arm to check his watch - 1:47 AM. He stretches his aching limbs as he sits up, stiff from sleeping on his side. He yawns as he twists around, locating Holly’s pictures and June’s letter, smiling slightly as he picks them up from his cot. He’d slept so soundly he hadn’t even disturbed them. He stands and lights his lantern, illuminating his small tent, blinking into the space with fresh, well rested eyes. 

 

There’s a clarity he can’t explain in the air around him, like the morning after a storm. 

 

He runs one hand through his hair as he looks back down at the letter and pictures in his hand, something stirring inside him. Something he’d tried to bury and keep safe, like a pirate hiding his greatest treasure from the world. 

 

 _Hope_.

 

He looks around his tent and surveys the mess of orders half out of his bag, oranges scattered on the ground, the matches for his lantern. And then he looks back at the papers in his hand as his eyes close, hearing June’s words in his head from what feels like a lifetime ago, back in his bedroom above the Waterford’s garage.

 

_Think of what you can do._

_For as long as he could remember, his family rented the same cabin on the shore of Lake Michigan. Every summer, the last two weeks of July, like clockwork._

 

_The summer before Nick started 4th grade they’d shown up to a surprise - the owner of the cabin had installed central air. They all enjoyed the relief it provided from the heat but one afternoon they’d come back from fishing to an unbearably hot house. The air stopped working. Nick tried not to let it bother him too much, they didn’t have air conditioning at home, but the sticky summer heat quickly became nearly intolerable, even with the windows open. His mom tried to get him to go play outside with Josh but his mood had soured. It was too hot to do anything._

 

_Instead, he’d laid prone on the bottom bunk in the room he’d shared with Josh imagining every cold thing he could think of - snow cones, snowball fights, the swimming pool at the park near their house at home. For some reason, the heat didn’t bother him as much at home. He laid there for what felt like forever, wishing they could go back home until the heat became too much. He fell asleep hot and sweaty on top of the covers on his bunk._

 

_He woke up hours later, calm and cool to the steady hum of the air conditioner. He knew his dad had been trying to get it to work and he’d succeeded. It was fixed. That night over dinner, with a much improved mood, he asked what had happened. His dad had laughed as he told him. The shrubs had grown into the compressor and it’d caused the whole system to shut off. Nick shook his head, not believing just the bushes could have been the problem. Surely it had to be something bigger than that._

 

_“Sometimes it’s the smallest things that cause the most trouble,” his dad replied with a shrug._

And then his eyes snap open. Something else awakening deep within him, something that hope needs to flourish and survive. 

 

_Purpose._

 

The gears start spinning in his head and he knows he has to act before any more time gets away from him. 

 

Quickly, he retrieves two sheets of paper and a pen from his bag and sits on his cot. He smiles at the pictures of Holly before he brings the pen to the paper.

 

* * *

 

June comes home from shopping with one thing on her mind. Nick.

 

She’d been able to force him elsewhere into her mind so she could get through her days, but today she’d run into Rita again, who’d given her something for him. She’d pressed it into her hands, wrapped carefully in brown wax paper. She hadn’t had time to tell her what it was, only stressing that she knew it was important and she’d rescued it from the trash. June hadn’t looked at it yet, but it’d been enough to push Nick back into the front of her thoughts.

 

She hasn’t heard from him since she sent the pictures of Holly nearly three weeks ago. 

 

She drops her groceries with Beth and manages to creep off to her room with the package for Nick undisturbed. She chews on her bottom lip as she enters her room, shutting the door behind her. Should she open it? Maybe she should send it to him. She’s so lost in her mind that she doesn’t immediately register the tattered envelope waiting for her on her bed, but when she does her breath catches in her chest, the package forgotten as she drops it on her bed.

 

Eagerly she opens the envelope. It’s been longer than usual since she heard from him and she smiles when she opens the envelope to find two pieces of paper folded inside, one marked on the outside for Holly in neat block letters. It’s not sealed, but she decides to pass on reading it, deciding those words need to stay between the two of them. She sets it down next to his package as she flips open her letter, her heart sinking as she looks at the short note, his handwriting messy and rushed.

_J,_

_Thank you. I know what I have to do now. It’ll all be over soon. I love you so much._

_-N_


	5. Chapter 5

Two and a half months.

 

That’s how long it’s been since she got her last letter from Nick.

 

Ten weeks.

 

It took a while before she realized just exactly how much time had passed. She’d managed to keep busy assisting Beth with different projects around the house and helping her with the network as much as she could. But she lost most of her time writing to Holly now that she could. She wanted to make sure Holly knew her and knew Nick and knew that she was wanted and loved. So she filled many of her days getting lost in that, writing to her in a way that would be easy for a child to understand, so that someone could read it to her once she was old enough to start asking where her mommy and daddy were. She wrote their story. She turned it into a fairy tale of sorts, hoping that would make it easier for her to understand. It made her realize that, even in spite of everything, she had persisted. Nick had persisted. Their love had persisted. They’d managed to build and create something beautiful in this place where love and hope wasted away and died.

 

It filled her with hope, even in the absence of Nick’s letters. Certainly, this story of love and perseverance couldn’t have a tragic end. It didn’t seem possible. It helped her to push the worry and concern out of her mind as the weeks stretched on and on.   

 

It wasn’t until the leaves started changing color that her worry reached a point where she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Summer was ending, being ushered out by cooler, crisp air and the vibrant reds and yellows of the trees and she _still_ hadn’t heard from Nick. That’s when she started counting. 

 

Seventy-one days.

 

1,704 hours.

 

She’d pulled out paper with every intention of writing him again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done _that_ which was almost enough to send her into a panic. But instead, she finds herself doing math, of all things. Counting back days and weeks, trying to remember just exactly how long it had been since she last heard from Nick. 

 

She hadn’t done long multiplication since she was in 6th grade but like riding a bike, it was a skill she quickly picked back up. She bites her lip as she carries the four, scratching the numbers onto the paper, doing some quick addition before drawing a circle around her answer.

 

102,240 minutes.

 

She stares at the number, almost too large to comprehend, not able to find any way to diminish it like she could with the ones before it. She’d thought this would help. It hadn’t. She traces over the number with her pen repeatedly, watching as it grows bolder and stronger, screaming at her. 

 

102,240. Over one hundred thousand minutes spent without a word from Nick. One hundred thousand minutes where anything could have happened to him.

 

_All it would take is for one of those minutes to go wrong. Just one._

 

She closes her eyes, quickly shutting that part of her brain off. She scratches out the number with her pen, going over it with so much urgency she rips a hole in the page.

 

She drops the pen and crumples the paper, throwing it across the room. She crosses her arms across her chest as she exhales sharply. Mad at herself for getting in her own head, mad at Nick for not writing. He said he’d write. Why hasn’t he written?

 

_Where the fuck are you, Nick?_

 

* * *

 

The next day, she decides to get some answers. If Nick won’t write her so she doesn’t have to worry then, fuck it, she’ll calm her nerves herself.

 

She waits until the evening, after dinner, when the house is quiet and everyone else is settled in for the night before she sneaks out of her room and down to Lawrence’s study; the sound of soft jazz music playing behind the door letting her know he’s still up and working. She raises her hand to knock, hesitating before she does, her fist trembling as she starts to think about why she’s waited so long to do this.

 

She squeezes her eyes shut, squares her shoulders, and blows out a deep breath before she opens her eyes and gives the door three sharp knocks.

 

_Now or never. Time to rip off the bandaid._

 

There’s shuffling behind the door and she takes a step back just before Lawrence pulls the door open. “Beth, I thought I told you to bring—”

 

He stops short as he looks June up and down, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You’re not Beth.”

 

She exhales sharply and shakes her head once. “No, sir.”

 

And then, without another word, he turns and disappears back into his study without closing the door. June peers through the doorway, waiting until he’s taken his seat back at his desk before she steps inside, accepting the invitation. She glances around, focusing on his books in the dim light of his office. There are hundreds of them, but she can’t make out any of the titles. She bites her lip as her eyes wander over the multicolored spines, wondering if she’d worked on any of them.

 

“Can I help you with something?” Lawrence barks out, annoyed. Her head snaps back in the direction of the desk and she nods, taking in the mess of papers and maps in front of him. At the edge of the desk is a map she can tell is the midwest even from where she is, the unmistakable shape of Michigan and the Great Lakes apparent even from across the room. 

 

“Yes, sir,” she says, not taking her eyes off the map, trying to figure out what the different markings and colors mean and find comfort in them, but she can’t. Her eyes slowly drift over to meet Lawrence’s. His eyes narrow as he studies her. 

 

“I was wondering if you could tell me anything about Chicago,” she states abruptly. 

 

Lawrence sits silent and unblinking for a long moment. Too long. She looks down at her boots, and she’s just about to let the panic in when he speaks.

 

“Chicago?”

 

Her head snaps up as she inhales deeply, drawing her mouth in a tight line as she nods.

 

“Not much to say,” he says with a shrug. “We lost Chicago weeks ago.”

 

Her vision goes black at the edges. She’s standing at the end of a long tunnel with no escape. Everything is hollow. Her body, the room, the world. All of it, empty. Meaningless. A black hole.

 

Lawrence keeps talking but all she hears is white noise, like the machine they’d had for Hannah when she was a baby. The blood rushing in her ears deafens everything, numbing her senses.  She could scream but no one would hear so she pushes it down, letting the void consume everything, including her voice. 

 

_Lost._

 

She’s floating. She’s anchored to the ground. She’s here. She’s not. She’s everything and nothing, all at once. 

 

_Lost._

 

Somehow, she ends up in her room with the door closed behind her. She doesn’t remember getting there but she must have walked. She sits down on the bed and stares at her wall. White. Blank. It’s nothing. It’s how she feels. She has nothing. Nick was in Chicago and Chicago has been lost. There’s nothing. She has no one here anymore.

 

Her eyes drift from the wall to her nightstand. She’d written another letter to Holly that day, the last part of her story. She’d been feeling hopeful that morning, so sure she’d get some reassuring news from Lawrence, and had speculated an ending. She swallows hard as she picks up the paper. Had she really written this today? Already, it feels like a relic from another time. Before and after. 

 

She blinks as she looks down at the paper, feeling the nothingness starting to fill with anger, burning white-hot in her core. It’s not _fair_. Their story wasn’t supposed to end this way. It wasn’t. She’d believed it, and she’s furious at herself for letting herself believe anything could be different about their situation. This is Gilead. Nothing good survives Gilead. She should have known better.

 

She crushes the paper in one fist, balling it up and throwing it hard against the wall. She watches as it falls, feeling the wave of anger recede as she stares at the ball of paper on the floor, remembering who the words on that page were meant for. Holly.

 

Holly had survived Gilead and she deserves better than a story with a shitty ending. Quickly, June stands and retrieves the crumpled ball from the floor. She sits back down as she smooths the paper out as best as she can, her eyes flying over the words she’d written earlier and that’s when the grief hits her.

 

There’s no chance for this anymore. None. How can she tell their daughter that her father…

 

She closes her eyes, refusing to think of the word. The word that will make it final. The word that will make it real.

 

“I’m sorry, baby,” she whispers to the paper before she puts it on her nightstand. She can’t part with it, she can’t send it, but she doesn’t know what to do with it now. “I tried. We tried.” 

 

The tears finally fall off her eyelashes as she blinks. She shakes her head as she lays down on her bed fully clothed, rolling over and curling into herself on her tiny mattress, feeling her body start to shake as the grief finally takes over in full force.

 

_Lost._

 

* * *

 

June wakes up late the next morning after a night of restless sleep with the hope that maybe the night before had just been a bad dream. She’s able to keep that hope alive for about fifteen seconds, but then she rolls over and sees the physical reminder of the previous evening on her nightstand. She pulls herself up to a sitting position as she picks the letter up, turning it face down on the nightstand.

 

She still doesn’t know what to do with it.

 

She sighs heavily as she remembers it’s Thursday— grocery day. She’d rather keep to herself today but somehow she manages to convince herself that shopping will be good. She can distract herself with mindless tasks as she tries to figure out how what steps she needs to take for herself next.

 

She drags herself downstairs without bothering to change into a fresh dress. She blinks heavily as she pads into the bright kitchen. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Normally on grocery day,  Beth is busying herself taking inventory of the pantry and fridge, trying to plan out a menu for the upcoming week with what she’s heard they have in stock at the store and what she still has available. But today the kitchen is still, the only sound coming from the steady hum of the refrigerator. 

Any other day, June would have felt compelled to explore, letting her curiosity getting the best of her. But today, she can’t bring herself to muster that much interest. She makes her way over to the breakfast nook and sits, resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. She closes her eyes as she tries to center herself, taking deep breaths when the kitchen door creaks open and then slams shut. 

 

Her eyes flutter open to the sound of hurried footsteps as Beth enters the kitchen, relief washing over her features as her eyes land on June.

 

“Good, you’re up,” Beth says excitedly as she crosses the kitchen to a bewildered June. Beth is _never_ this enthusiastic to see her. June looks her up and down, trying to figure out what’s going on when Beth produces a white envelope from inside her apron.

 

June’s breath hitches as she feels her heart begin to race.

 

_It’s not possible._

 

Beth holds the envelope out to her and June feels her head start to shake almost involuntarily. Whatever that is, she doesn’t want it. It can’t be anything good.

 

_Goodbye? A suicide letter? No fucking thank you._

 

“June, take it,” Beth’s tone is firm as she presses the envelope into June’s hands. She turns it over in her trembling fingers. This one is different than the rest. The envelope is crisp and undamaged and her name is printed in familiar block letters on the outside. Small but tidy. She knows the lettering. Boy’s handwriting. It’d been her lifeline for the past eight months.

 

Steeling herself, she runs her finger under the flap of the envelope, unsealing it, pulling out the sheet of crisp white paper.

 

_June,_  
  
_I found it. It’s still there. Just go with them. Trust me._  
  
_I’ll be waiting. See you soon. I love you._  
  
_-Nick_

__  
__  
  


She feels herself start to smile in spite of herself as she looks at the words on the page, a throwback to a time before, words whispered only to her as he stood with his hand on her stomach protectively. A promise to her, then and now.

 

It’s him. No one else would know to tell her that or use those words.

 

_It’s him._

 

She’s barely had time to process what this means when Beth grabs her arm, pulling her unexpectedly to her feet.

 

“There a van outside,” she says as her eyes scan the kitchen, her voice low and urgent. “They’re only waiting five minutes. Go get your shoes.”

 

June nods as she turns and scrambles up the stairs without a second thought, taking them two at a time. She rushes into her room, tugging her boots on, zipping them halfway and pulling her cloak off its hanger with so much force it clatters to the ground. She throws it over her shoulders, fastening it as she steps towards the door when she stops short. 

 

She turns back into the room, grabbing Nick’s package from Rita from her closet and the crumpled letter for Holly off her nightstand. She tucks both of them inside her cloak, close to her body, keeping them safe as she finally turns to exits her room for the last time.

 

She pulls her door shut behind her. She knows she should be scared of heading off into the unknown in a black van. But she’s not. Instead she’s calm and at peace, like she’s never been so sure of anything in her entire life.

 

Maybe she’s crazy. Maybe this is suicide.

 

But maybe it’s the start of the rest of her life.

 

And either way, she’s going.

 

Either way, Nick will be there.

 

Either way, she’ll find her way back to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we've reached the end of this story! We hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as we've enjoyed writing it. Getting to explore these characters in this way has almost been like therapy as we work through what has been an extremely rough season for our favorite dystopian couple.
> 
> While this story has come to an end, this _series_ is definitely going to continue! We have plans for what we think is the happiest, most satisfying ending that these two deserve and so on that note, I highly encourage everyone to either bookmark or subscribe to the series this story is a part of, [When You Find Me](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389148). All future installments will be added to this series, so if you subscribe and/or bookmark, you can be sure you won't miss any of the future updates!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for all the wonderful comments, feedback, and kudos on this story. We're so happy it's been so well received. :)


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